It took you long enough
by That Gryffindor Flame
Summary: Yes, he had his little cottage, his cottage on the corner, but he was lonely. And that was why at four thirty-seven pm on a very hot, sunny Saturday in June, Merlin found himself walking towards the beach to see if there was anything interesting going on. And he finds destiny awaiting, at long last.


Merlin walks up the road from his old cottage. A couple of elderly people, also walking around the beachy, sandy area, mutter words of hello and some cheerfully greet him with large eyes and wrinkled foreheads creasing.

"Hello Mr Emrys!"

"Good day Mr Emrys!" They say, and Merlin smiles with his old, also wrinkled face. He hasn't looked young in many centuries, he prefers to stay old and stay strong. That's how he copes. That's how he has always coped. Stay strong. Stay thankful. Stay hopeful. He's always hopeful. It's the one thing inside of him, the one feeling that has managed to stay and never fade. Along with his love. His love will never leave him.

He moved into the cottage into the little village of Irvine many, many years ago. He missed the Lake Avalon on his journeys and could not resist the call of the blessed water any longer, he had to return. And Irvine is the village that he had found resting on its banks. How many years ago now? Thirty, he thinks. Around thirty. He doesn't keep count any more. He hasn't kept count for many, many years. There is no point, he tells himself, not until he returns and I am once again complete.

But; his cottage. It's a mottled white on the outside, and quite small to be honest, with a little, rotting yet homely wooden gate that creaks as it swings open to announce Merlin's arrival home or the arrival of rare guests. The front, and the back for that matter, gardens are overgrown with weeds and tall grass and Merlin keeps telling himself to trim it all and get it tidy but he just never finds the time.

Time. He once had so little of it because it was filled with happiness and friends and fighting and adventure, and time quickly faded with the laughing, but now the days feel endless and lonely. He has had too much time.

The front door is a musky blue and the doorknob darkened bronze. His key is slowly changing to the same colour after so many years. And inside… Inside his house is home. It is not like Camelot for nothing will ever live up to Camelot, but this is a faraway (nothing will ever come close to Camelot) second best.

The door opens to a wood-lined hallway, dark oak floors and green walls, covered with hangings and paintings and pictures that he has collected over the decades. The all depict the great, legendary King Arthur, some feature his knights and some his Queen, the Lady Guinevere. But most of them, most of them feature a wizard.

No, not a wizard. Not a sorcerer. A warlock, the great warlock to ever walk the planet.

Merlin.

He always smiled when he came across a painting of himself. Or what people imagine him to be like. It was one of those rare times a real smile, an actual real one not like the ones he shot at those saying hello in the streets who didn't really know him, dared to cross his face.

They always got it so _right_ and yet so _wrong_.

Yes, he was old now but not when he was with his beloved King. He had been a young man with midnight locks and shining blue eyes. And while these paintings show Arthur to be young, mostly, with his golden strands and sword held high, Merlin was shown as the old, wise wizard.

_Warlock._

He had to buy them all. The best ones he hung up and the rest he stored away. Maybe he would show… he would show _him_ when he returned. And Merlin hoped, oh he hoped, that he returned soon because the days were so lonely and endless.

There wasn't much else of the cottage. His little cottage. Mr Emrys' little cottage on the corner, some called it in playful and upbeat tones. A cosy sitting room and kitchen with a dining table. A study upstairs where he kept many a book about spells and warlocks and of course King Arthur and the Round Table Knights.

So yes he had his little cottage, his cottage on the corner, but he was lonely. And that was why at four thirty-seven pm on a very hot, sunny Saturday in June, he found himself walking towards the beach to see if there was anything interesting going on.

He had been so shocked to see the shores of Avalon. No longer a grassland but overthrown by fine grains of sand going on for several miles. Now it was where everyone (the young ones really) went to 'hang out' and play volleyball in the basking sun.

Merlin carried on walking and after a while he came to a stop. There was a boy, around the age of nineteen, playing football with his friends on the beach. They were laughing and obviously trying to impress the girls lying on beach towels not far from them.

The boy had short golden hair that glimmered in the sunlight. He had an athletic frame and an obvious desire to be the best. But what shocked Merlin were the blue, so blue, eyes. It was him. It had to be him.

He felt his magic coursing inside him, filling every bone of his being and he knew for sure. He only had that connection with one person. He had only ever had it with one person.

He ran, as fast as his old aged feet could carry him, and hid in some trees and bushes. There was no way anyone could see him. He started to chant and suddenly the beard and the long hair and the wrinkles receded. The hair on his head began dark and unruly, his eyes sharp and bright, his body once again that of his eighteen year old self.

Eighteen had he been in the early years of serving _him_.

He scrambled out from the trees and watched as the boy, as _he_, stopped playing at once. He began to look around wildly and his friends looked at him confused, the girls whispering at the side. And he turned to see Merlin.

Their eyes locked and Merlin felt the tears brew in his eyes. And he ran.

He ran and ran at the figure and, after what felt like just another lifetime to him, was suddenly standing in front of him.

In front of Arthur.

"Arthur?" He whispered, waiting for a response. Any kind of response.

And sure enough his King's voice came. It was young once again and filled with remembrance and loyalty, "Merlin?"

And they were in each other's arms. They were hanging on for dear life and silently letting the tears fall down their cheeks. Merlin's grip was tighter and he buried his face in the crook of Arthur's neck, "Is it really you?" He dared to ask.

Arthur grinned into his hair and felt the wave of memories crash over him, "It's me."

"Arthur?"

"Yes Merlin?"

"It sure took you long enough."


End file.
